


Sex Type Thing

by tree



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-31
Updated: 2008-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know you like what's on my mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex Type Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [SS Huddy](http://community.livejournal.com/ss_huddy). My recipient asked for post-infarction, pre-ducklings smut.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to wendelah1 for last minute beta, Americanising my spelling, and encouragement. Title is from the Stone Temple Pilots song of the same name.

He's sitting at the piano, just sitting, when the knocking begins. He ignores it, just as he's ignored his ringing phone (both of them) and the drone of his pager (seven at last count). He's not playing hard to get this time; he's not playing at all.

"House, if you don't open the door, I'm going to call the police."

A flicker of surprise runs through him because it's Cuddy's voice and not Wilson's. It's that flicker that gets him up, gets him moving, gets him wrenching open the door.

"Why are you here, Cuddy? Trying to assuage your guilt?" His voice lacks the bite he'd intended.

"You haven't answered your phone or returned any messages. You didn't call in sick and no one's heard from you since Friday," she says, her voice as flat as her eyes. "I thought I should check on you before the neighbors started to complain of the smell."

He shrugs and turns away, leaving her standing in the hall. "Didn't think I had to call in cripple."

There's a rustle behind him and the solid click of the door. He waits.

"I know what today is," she says, finally.

"The first anniversary of our glorious whimper," he mutters, and there's no irony in it, only bitterness. He moves back to the piano and sits. The bottle of scotch in front of him is still half full and he pours himself another finger. "I'd offer you some, but you'll have to find your own glass."

"Is that what you've been doing all day? Self-medicating?"

With his eyes closed, the sounds of her in his apartment are amplified. The rustle of her taking off her coat. The light click of her shoes against the wood. The slight buzz of her nylons as her thighs brush together. All the soft sounds of another body in his space that he doesn't want to have been missing, that he doesn't want to be grateful for, now.

He opens his eyes at the clink of glass on glass and watches her pour her own drink. She sips with her blue eyes on his. Stacy's eyes are brown. Tonight Cuddy is dressed in black, funereal, and he wonders if the color was a conscious choice. It would be just like her to try to share in his mourning.

"She walked out on me a year ago," he says. He runs a slow arpeggio with his left hand. "But she left me long before that. And what I'm still wondering is why I was so surprised."

Cuddy sets her glass down next to his. "She couldn't stand you blaming her. Hating her."

"You can," he says, belligerent.

"Yes," she says with a little nod, as if he's just told her something obvious, like the time.

"Why is that?" And it's something he really wants to know, a puzzle he can't quite figure out.

When he stands, she doesn't move away, just follows him with her eyes. Stacy is almost as tall as him and he is disconcerted by how far down he has to look at Cuddy, even in her heels. Her lipstick is almost gone and her lips are a little shiny from the scotch. The pulse at the base of her throat gently shifts the delicate strand of pearls she's wearing. It's suddenly the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, the creamy white pearls against the paleness of her skin, the flutter of blue underneath.

"Why _are_ you here?" he asks against her mouth. So close. A challenge, a dare.

"I don't know," she says, and kisses him. It's soft and tentative at first, as if she expects him to push her away. But he lets her lick his lips open and slide her tongue inside to touch his own. It's so wet and sweet that he groans and grabs the back of her head to get her closer.

He feels her hands sliding around his waist and the light press of her body as she moves into him. She keeps kissing him, kissing him, until he's half hard in his jeans, his first real arousal in longer than he wants to remember. He'd like to sink into the sensation and let it take him away.

Cuddy is smaller and curvier than he's used to and he doesn't even try to pretend that he's never considered what it would be like to get his hands on her. When he drags his hand from her head to palm her breast, he understands that his imagination's not as great as he's always thought. When he finds her nipple she makes a high, breathy moan into his mouth that sends a rush of heat to his balls. Her hands clench on his ass and pull his hips tight against hers. Even through both their clothes, the soft resiliency of her belly against his cock is so good it almost makes him want to cry.

Using his body, he crowds her against the piano and moves his mouth away from hers to taste the delicate skin behind her ears, under her jaw. The hand on her breast meanders down until it can reach up under her skirt. She smells like the hospital and the last gasps of perfume and her own arousal. His hand roams the heated landscape of her inner thigh, fingers buzzing slightly against the texture of her hose. He's working hard not to hump her like a dog.

"Gonna fuck me and make me better?" he murmurs in her ear.

She flinches against him, but her voice is steady. "If that's what you want."

"I think it's what you want," he tells her and presses the heel of his hand against her mons. Her hips jerk and she makes a choked noise in the back of her throat. "A pity fuck, Cuddy? I didn't think you'd lower your standards so far."

"What I'm feeling right now is nothing like pity, House."

Her eyes are closed and her head tipped slightly back so that he can see the long, vulnerable line of her throat. For an animal to bare its throat at you takes immeasurable trust. He could rip out her jugular right now. Instead, he slips his hand from between her legs and yanks on her skirt. "Take it off."

He moves back and rests his hips on the back of the sofa to watch her undress. That she does it so matter-of-factly somehow makes it that much more erotic. She doesn't turn her face away, doesn't break eye contact, even when he starts rubbing his dick through his jeans. Finally, she's standing before him in nothing but her pearls, her skin fiercely pale against the black piano.

"Put the shoes back on," he growls. And she does, and _fuck_ it's the hottest thing he's seen in his life. What he wouldn't give to be able to do her right there against the piano. Instead, he pushes himself up and over to her, mashing his mouth down on hers. This time their kisses are fierce, almost violent, his tongue like a battering ram. It's her fault that he can't fuck her like he wants to but if things were different he wouldn't be fucking her at all.

He pushes her legs apart and slides his hand up to where she's slick and swollen for him. Her thighs are sticky with it and that alone almost makes him come in his pants. He's not gentle when he shoves two fingers into her cunt; they moan in unison as her muscles tighten around him. Using his thumb to circle her clit, he drops his cane and grabs onto the piano for balance so he can get a nipple into his mouth. Cuddy is panting above him and her sweated skin squeaks as she squirms between him and the piano. He sucks and nips at her nipples, her breasts, her clavicles. She's making soft little cries and undulating against his hand. It's so hot he can hardly breathe; his balls are aching.

Suddenly her eyes fly open and she's straining against him. "Yeah," he says, low and fierce. "Come on." He loops his thumb through the string of pearls around her neck until it snaps. He will forever associate the tinkling patter of their fall to the floor with the feel of her coming around his fingers.

She shakes against him, her hands clutched on his shoulders, while he slips his fingers from between her legs and sucks them into his mouth. She tastes musky and sharp and he doesn't think he can stand not to come for one more second. Grabbing one of her hands, he shoves it against his crotch and grinds, the sensation both relief and torture.

"Want you."

"I never would have guessed." Her low chuckle infuriates him. He wants to pound into her until something breaks open. She takes his hand and helps him around to the sofa, but he bats her away when she goes for his fly, unable to risk the ignominy of coming before he even gets inside her.

Pants around his ankles, he looks up to find her opening a condom packet. "So this _was_ a booty call, Doctor Cuddy."

She straddles him, shaking her head. "You would think that. Hold still." She gets the condom on before he embarrasses himself and now he's the one who's shaking.

"Just do it, Lisa. Please."

She looks him in the eye as she guides his cock to her opening and slides down slowly. It's almost more than he can bear and he has to pant like a woman in a Lamaze class to stay on top of the sensation.

"Okay?" she asks.

He nods, jerkily, fingers digging into her thighs. Then she begins to ride him and he's lost, head thrown back against the cushions, eyes squinting up at her like she's the too-bright sun. She's lifting up slowly and coming back down on him so hard it feels like she might break his cock, but it's so fucking _good_ he never wants it to end. Above him, Cuddy is flushed and sheened with sweat, her amazing breasts jiggling right in his face. He wants to crush his face against them and root around like a hog but all his concentration is focused on not coming, not coming, not coming. And then it's too late, too soon, he can feel the tightness in his balls and then the warm rush of orgasm overtakes him like a flash flood, leaving him blind and deaf and limp.

He barely notices her pulling away and rolling the condom off him. Dimly, he hears her moving around the apartment, her rustles and clinks an odd reversal of the sounds she made on the way in.

"House," she says in his ear, and he opens his eyes to find her fully dressed before him. "Here, lie down." He lets her maneuver him into a horizontal position and cover him with a blanket. There is the distant tug of her pulling his jeans and boxers off his ankles. He feels so fucking good it doesn't even hurt. On the coffee table in front of him are a glass of water and a bottle of Vicodin. _Thanks, doc_, he thinks, not sure if he says it aloud. His eyes are already closed.

"Get some sleep," she says, and he thinks he feels a soft kiss on his temple. "Oh, and you owe me a new necklace." The last makes him grin.

Then there's the click of the door closing and the rising velvet of sleep. Maybe he'll go in to work tomorrow. After all, what are the chances that he'll get lucky like this two nights in a row?


End file.
